Rat Poison
by Napoleon of Crime
Summary: Margaret must seek the help of Basil for protection from her husband. Her husband, unfortunately, is Basil's archenemy. How can she let Basil track him down when she still loves him?
1. Mousehole

A/N: It goes without saying that none of these characters are mine except Margaret. Thanks to everyone who reviewed "A Drowned Rat." I really appreciate it! This will be a fair bit longer, and I hope you enjoy it just as much. Thanks for the help, Megana! I think I have this fixed now.

Pray, is there a compassionate soul alive? There must be one who wonders this: How would things be now should we have done but one thing differently? Perhaps by the mercy of only one choice differently made my life should not have come to this. Surely, you as well have asked this question of yourself more times than it is possible to remember. Even so, no one knows better than I do that when a decision is made there is no taking it back. Remedying what was done is unreliable, as some actions cannot be erased. All that remains is the ability to dust oneself off and go on.

My name is Margaret, but anyone who is well acquainted with me calls me Maudlin Mag. I'm already ahead of myself; there is plenty of time for that to be explained. More notable at the moment is where I have come from and where I am going. I won't bore you with my troubles, but I will tell you where I am going. Certainly, it is one of the last places I would ever expect to seek out. Of course, I have run out of other mistakes to make, so this cannot dig me any deeper.

Finding me in disarray as I am would justify my desperation. To make matters worse, I am ashamed to be seen with my face filthy from the dirty underground, my dress in want of mending, my fur nearly unrecognizable from its usual soft grey. And too my eyes, bothered by the all the tears I have shed on my way; with each I learn a lesson, but it is a lesson learned too late to prove useful. All I have that does justice to the jovial years in the early 1890's is this locket I never remove from my neck. It glitters still with all the brightness of the day it was first fastened. Again, I get ahead of myself. I am on my way to 221 Baker Street, in search of Detective Basil and his partner Doctor Dawson.

Why, you wonder, was I so reluctant to seek their service if I have a mystery to be solved? There is a mystery to be solved, do not misunderstand, but I fear that I am only aggravating it further by employing our Basil. Here is Baker Street now, and I do wish I could stay with you, and sponge away what is past. Sadly, I cannot. For my sake and that of my family, I go to the great mouse detective. Good day to you.

Gracious, at least, is the hour. The sky begins to lighten. Too early still for the bustle that overtakes the streets midmorning, from the men towering above, and mice here at my level. Meandering amidst crowds would do me only disservice, particularly if I am recognized. Unlikely that any would bear the bother of following the steps I took to get where I am now. This leaves me with the hope that I will be received with understanding.

Scurrying along the edge of the cobblestones, I see what I have been looking for. The address — 221 Baker Street! So early is it that I doubt whether anyone is yet awake. Closer, I crawl beneath the branches of a bush. The windows are dark, and peering inside tells me nothing, save that everyone inside is asleep. Deep as I am in need of help, I seriously rethink what I am doing. Innately, I know there is no solution that can make everything come out neatly as I would like. Coming here promises me that. I stand before the door, staring at the grain in the wood. I pace back and forth before the door some dozen times before I can encourage myself to go up and knock, but with one swift motion, I do so before my conscience can stop me.

After rapping four times, I pause. No response came from inside. My first thought is that perhaps there is a reason for this; am I not destined to be heard? I should turn around and return home. No. That is no way to think. I cannot solve my problems by going back. Nor can I put an end to the crime. I knock again, louder this time, then dart back to the window to watch. Pressing my nose up against the glass, it leaves a misty circle, which I wipe away to see better. All in vain, as there is still nothing to see.

Frustrated, I march back to the door, my paws balled into tight fists. Meeting with a response from inside now has less to do with the response itself, and more to do with the ability to get one. Too many times, I have been brushed aside and ignored. This will not be another. Shamelessly, I rear back with both fists and inhale deeply. I pound. I pound, and I air out my lungs with shouts, peppered with words I should have left out, but fit my mood better than cleaner ones.

When I run out of breath, energy, and motivation, I stare. "Mr. Basil must be a bloody brilliant detective. He can't even find himself!" With what I believe to be proof of what I hear all the time in my circle, I turn and drag my feet glumly in the direction from which I came. "Sod it," I sigh, creeping back into the bush. Suddenly, a sound gives me pause. It almost sounded like the creaking of a door

I pay no mind to the scratches my poor ears were taking from the low hanging branches. Muffled speaking is all I can hear, and I can pick out two voices, "Who is it, Basil?" yawns a voice drunk with sleep. That must be Dawson.

"Likely some child. I could live without ridiculous games at this hour." Basil is not pleased, and I do not want to make my appearance as some thick brat. Already I had made a poor first impression, and he does not even know my name yet!

"Wait!" I squeak, leaping from the bushes, my sides heaving. Met with their stares of understandable confusion, I suddenly feel incredibly out of place and exposed. I don't feel a whit ladylike standing here with my fur tangled and branches caught in my dress. Basil and Dawson, still in their nightclothes, are clearly ill at ease as well, seeing me and wondering how this curious lady mouse (If I can possibly be seen as such, now or ever!) happened to fall onto his doorstep. Dawson tries to relax me with a welcoming smile, and I have to return it because he reminds me of a blueberry in his navy nightshirt. Basil is more intimidating, and the severity of his expression is not abated by soft lavender tone of his robe. The pipe in his hand spouts a continuous trail of smoke in a wavy upward course. Its wafting ascent meshes with his impatience. I want to excuse myself, but I have been pleading for forgiveness, but the situation has always been quite different from this. "I do apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but"

My voice fades away. He is waiting for something more that I have not prepared. For the first time in ages, I come across a stroke of fortune; I am interrupted by the chattering of a blustering older mouse woman, who comes rushing out from the back of the flat, her arms flailing. She shoves past Basil and Dawson, each of them falling into the doorframe as she passes by. "Oh deary! Blow me down, you _are_ a sight!" If I was nervous before, now I am frightened! My custom is a more detached atmosphere, but she warmly embraces me, making me splutter. "Well? Aren't you going to let the poor girl in?"

Although I don't feel much like a poor girl, I say nothing. Neither do Basil and Dawson, who are not yet sufficiently awake to stand up to their landlady. Basil resents taking her orders, but obeys, and shuts the door behind us. "I'm Mrs. Judson," she offers eagerly. "If you need anything at all, tell me." Pulling my ear close to her mouth, she adds at a whisper, "They mean well, but I wouldn't trust these two with me life!" We share a grin, and I feel momentarily at home. That is, until I turn around to make eye contact with Basil.

"I trust," he says evenly, "that you have good reason for disrupting an otherwise tranquil morning." Taking a few puffs from his pipe, he crosses the room and seats himself in a wine red armchair.

Scampering to his side, I wait for him to grin, to tell me he is kidding. Then I imagine he would eye me from head to toe and be able to analyze to the finest details why I am here before him. Next he would formulate a plan that would solve every problem I have, from the magnitude of my current plight down to the simple fact that I cannot swim, as if by magic. Soon am I to discover that he is no magician, as none of these things take place. All I see are the smoke rings rising from his pipe and Dawson behind me, patiently gathering up the few leaves I shed as I ran after Basil.

He seems to be thinking, but no epiphany comes to him. Now my turn has come to be impatient. If Basil is unable to read me to determine what brings me as he is reputed to do, he should certainly show an interest in how he can be of assistance! Instead, he does nothing of the kind, and continues smoking his pipe. I look to Dawson for an explanation, and he is immensely more sympathetic than is Basil. Indicating Basil, who I assume is ignoring me completely, I ask honestly, "Is he always so genteel when introduced?"

Dawson shrugs and takes over, "Come now; don't mind him. Basil has been a bit stroppy recently, just hasn't been quite himself. Now, what seems to be the trouble?"

Prepared now to answer the question (likely because it was asked in a more amiable manner) the difficulty I find this time is to pin down exactly where it started. The problem itself is the product of events that unfolded before, and those from ones previous. It all congeals, creating a sticky web of what now appear to be wrong turns. "Doctor, the whole story carries across the years, and it would take some thought on my part to find its beginning. The immediate situation is one anyone can understand." I tear up again at the thought, and feel the stinging ache in my throat again; these are the ails I have fought to suppress so I could appear strong here. Still, I fail myself, letting my emotions have their release as any woman would.

"I had to escape my own husband. H-he held me captive and would not even release me to see daylight. All I knew was darkness. So I fled." He nods, understanding, and puts an arm around me so I can weep into his shoulder.

"That is no way for a woman to live," Dawson says, consoling me. What I had so sparsely described to him had been my life for so long that I had come close to forgetting what life should have been. His voice makes me want to believe him. "Once Basil is in a more charitable mood, he will be able to set things straight."

Warmly, I smile at him through the tears in my eyes, which blur Dawson further into a brilliant blueberry. I hate to continue. "But there is something more," I say softly. "I had to leave my four children with him." This was too much for me, and I sob copiously into his sleeve. It makes no difference what they think; I have already made a poor first impression. At least this is something they can make sense of. Why should I try to hide feelings that are so important? Any mother who wholeheartedly loved her children would do the same.

"Have a seat," Dawson says, but I barely hear him. He gestures to a chair opposite Basil and I sit, pulling a handkerchief from my bodice to dry my eyes. I gradually catch my breath and relax again. Suddenly, Dawson seems to be struck with something he has forgotten. Sure enough, it was the question that I knew was coming sooner or later, but which I still dreaded to have to answer, "How rude of me! I meant to ask you, what is your name Madam?"

Guiltily, I look at him, trying to detach myself from the moment and make the room around me disappear. My eyes sting again, and I feel atrocious for seeking the help of someone who may now not want to give it to me. "My n-name is Margaret," I choke out. "Mrs. Margaret Ratigan."


	2. Squeaking By

A/N: Thanks for reading, all! Things will pick up quickly from here. I now have a drawing of Margaret I did on Deviantart along with my collection of Ratigan stuff. Enjoy!

"Do forgive me, Madam," Basil announces hurriedly, desperately trying to make up for his detachment earlier. My response is icy; I deeply resent being overlooked this way. Dawson rolls his eyes at Basil's sudden interest in me. Mrs. Judson disappears into the kitchen, shaking her head. Already, they must have known better than I did that Basil only gives attention where he believes it is due, as if he has only a limited amount and does not want to waste it. That could likely explain a thing or two. "Please," he says, then through gritted teeth adds, "This is as important to me as it is to you." I must wonder whether he is always so belligerent with clients, or whether he will harbour a grudge against me personally. That remains to be seen.

Leaving the side of my chair, Basil approaches the mantle piece and gestures toward a painting framed and mounted there over the hearth. My heart jumps in my chest; the well-done painting is such a perfect rendering of my husband, he comes alive. That is the Ratigan I know with his deceptively dashing smile. I can picture him before me as I sit, I can feel his presence, I can smell the smoke from the cigarette he always has lit No, that's just Basil's pipe, which he has left on the table beside the chair. It is all I can do to ignore the smell of it, the smoky odour that carries a meaning of confusing vileness along with it.

The painting, which is nothing more than paint on canvas, is surrounded by newspaper clippings tacked up on all sides. Basil leafs through these haughtily. "It was only a matter of time before this criminal mastermind resurfaced. The entire kingdom, and I too, were swept up in delight that the Queen was saved, and Professor Ratigan's plot was foiled. Looking back on it now, it is painfully obvious that Ratigan is not so easily silenced. Retrospectively, it is all to easy to trace the path of suspicious activity since that day. Thefts gone unsolved. Mice gone missing. Leads that go nowhere and ultimately grow cold. How long has it been now?" He pauses and shuffles with the articles.

"Three months next week," Dawson reminds him, dutifully. He is apparently well familiar with the length of time.

"Thank you. Dawson, this is the reason for my preoccupation of late. If you had seen the look on Ratigan's face as he plunged from the clock face, there was more to it than fear for his hide. The look he gave me when he grabbed my legs to break his fall said everything he couldn't articulate; for meeting defeat at my hands he would live to see the day when he could prove his persistence."

Pacing back and forth, Basil's voice was jumping up and down in frustration, trying to piece together his prime enemy. "That was who he was. He would not allow himself to die simply for the sake of spiting me. Anyone else would succumb to death after everything against him. Not Ratigan. When the rest of Mousedom believes his end has come, he rises again. Ratigan is a dogged rogue indeed." He tosses his head and looks rapidly about him. I pick up his pipe and hold it out to him. Turning slowly to me, he snatches it from me and asks with a rather obvious tone of suspicion, "But you are already well acquainted with this, of course. Well enough to have produced a family with our tenacious sewer rat."

Now it is my turn to flare up. I rise to my feet, nearly knocking Dawson over in the process and correct him instinctively, "Mouse! He is a mouse." I know it is a mistake to say this to Basil, but I do it anyway.

Basil stands motionless, his head tilted at an angle in thought. "You too? I can't help but wonder what kind of influence Ratigan holds over you. Perhaps he sent you here, with his own twisted motives. Or perhaps not. You must understand, when you give me this nonsense he impresses on all his followers about him being a mouse. It came so mechanically from you, just as it did from his mechanical Queen." Apparently, he finds his remark witty, and Dawson offers it a chuckle as well. The look of exasperation I direct at Dawson abruptly quiets him.

"I don't see fit to say a word more if this is how you will speak to me." This is very much part of what had made me hesitant to look to Basil for help. Never mind what I say or feel; knowing that Ratigan is my husband will make Basil suspicious of every word. Then there is the other side of the coin.

Choking on his own laughter, Basil sobers up. This was the catch – he was not about to let me get away. He works hard to maintain his composure. "Don't be silly. Granted, it was rude of me to say this to someone in your situation. Quickly Margaret, tell me. I am all ears." Now it is plain to see that he knows he has to help me whether he likes it or not. Much as I hate to let Ratigan's corrupt philosophy rub off on me, I can tell that I have Basil right where I want him. My family will be saved yet!

Amiable Dawson, fearing I have given up on Basil again, steps in to right what Basil has wronged. "He means it this time. Don't waste another minute," he says, then adds somberly, "Your children's lives may depend on it."

Most compelling for our Dawson. No doubt he wonders what I am doing here, but he has the sensitivity not to say so. Dabbing my handkerchief to my eyes once more, I nod. "Yes, to be sure." I give it some thought, tracing back through the web of goings on. "Where to start?" I ask to no one in particular.

"The beginning," suggests Dawson, "The best place to start." So I do. I start at the very beginning

"You recall that I introduced myself to you as Margaret. This was the name my mother gave me, but anyone who has known me for a time has another name for me – Maudlin Mag. The name has followed me to this day and maybe with good reason. It seems that the one quality that has remained constant about me is the air of misfortune I seem to carry about me. Whether I happen only to be at the wrong place at the wrong time or consciously bring tragedy upon tragedy on myself, I know not." I turn to Basil, my desperation seeping out unwanted onto my face. "Basil, maybe you can reason which it is."

"As far back as I can remember, nothing was ever simple. Being the youngest of five children of field mice is far from simple, and for my mother and father it was simply _grueling_. My father was a coal miner, mother told us, not paid half of what he was worth. She worked as a seamstress, because father's pay alone could not support the large family. I was born November 10, 1871. The date has been branded on me. I am all too familiar with it, for that is the day my father died in the mines, crushed when the shaft collapsed, they told me. I had no power over what went on and we all instinctively knew it. But my arrival on that ill-fated day marked me from birth as wretched. What they never realized was that I regret it too. I never knew my father, and he never knew me.

"Without the income of my father, even young as I was, I could perceive meals shrinking and clothes becoming more tattered. Feeding five children as well as herself was unrealistic for mother on a seamstress's wage. Our family was falling apart at the seams, and the way my mother chose to mend it was to remarry. By that time, my family of six had become five with the loss of one of my sisters to fever. None of us were delighted by her choice. Mr. Gloucester was a carpenter who didn't seem to spend much time earning an income by building, but a lot of time building debt by spending his income. For a working class mouse, he liked eating well and living above his status. When money ran out, he did not see it as his fault. The blame rested squarely on the large family of mouths to be fed, including the three he and my mother added together. My sister and brothers made a point of keeping our father's last name of Armstrong. I was too young to know the difference, but I wanted to be just like them, so I did the same.

"Little consequence came of anything we did. The four of us learned quickly that Mr. Gloucester had two remedies that could solve any problem he encountered: brandy, or the cheaper one, his belt. Once we were forced to scrimp and pinch every pence, the belt became his favourite. We learned not to run when he had it in his hand, as it would be over quicker. To get us out from underfoot and earn a few pounds on the side, Mr. Gloucester suggested (or rather ordered) my mother to have us go to work. The new three were far too young, but four was enough to be going on with. He enlisted my oldest brother, Henry, to work with him as a carpenter; my other brother Samuel he apprenticed to one vendor or another.

"Rather than let our mother train us to be seamstresses, Mr. Gloucester took a more direct option with us. So we became match girls. I was seven or eight, and Sophie was about eleven. I hated selling matches; it is one of the most degrading jobs available. To an optimistic young mouse who is an aspiring singer, it is an unwelcome first job. We were always chased by city cats and running to escape being stepped on by a careless human foot. I would tire quickly because I was only little, and Sophie would drag me through the streets, pleading for buyers.

"One day I can remember, Sophie and I were shuffling through the streets. It had rained the night before and rivers of water ran to the gutters. While we stood at the edge of the street, a horse and buggy rolled by, sending a torrent of water on top of us. We were drenched and frustrated, but unhurt. The real problem lay with the matches; soaked with water, they were spoiled, wasted. I sobbed, thinking of the belt. After walking like this for quite some time, Sophie turned and asked, Whatever is the matter, Margaret?'

"We'll be whipped for sure for losing the matches!' I whimpered.

"Sophie ceased to be sympathetic. That happens whether we sell the matches or not.'

"That didn't satisfy me. I wished Mr. Gloucester was gone. He didn't match what Henry, Sophie, and Samuel said of our own father. I miss Father,' I moaned, glumly.

"You never knew your father, muttonhead,' she spat at me as she frantically struck match after match as if she expected them to have survived drowning. He died the day you were born. When I sell matches with things like this always happen to us! And you cry like you are the only one who has troubles. Maudlin Mag!'

"I threw my matches down and scowled at her through a wall of tears. I'm not selling the matches _anymore_. Our real father would never make us do this. I don't know what he looked like and I don't know his voice, but I love him just the same.' Pausing for a breath, I noticed that she had stopped fiddling with her matches and was standing, eyes focused on the cracks in the road. Children always know when someone loves someone, even if they refuse to say a word. I went to Sophie. You loved him very much, didn't you?'

"His face is a blur now, but I remember his voice,' Sophie said, the bitterness fading from her voice. Every night when I had trouble sleeping, he used to tell me a story about a little poor mouse girl who grows up, marries, and becomes the Queen of Mousedom. Her name was always Sophie.' When I look up at my sister, I see that tears are falling from her eyes, too.

"After that, I don't know what happened. But I distinctly remember that Sophie and I didn't have to sell matches anymore. Samuel no longer worked as an apprentice. I was too young to understand that Henry was now working full time as a carpenter, and that Mother had sold nearly everything of hers to allow Samuel, Sophie, and me to attend school. We got a few years in, but it wasn't long before Mr. Gloucester's brandy habit was no longer sacrificed for our education. The three of us didn't dare to ask why. Samuel and Sophie may have known.

"Mother was not so willing to give up. I would go to sleep some nights only to wake to the sound of Mother and Mr. Gloucester shouting at each other. If the little ones woke and heard the noise, I would often take it on myself to soothe them. I would sing them lullabies, which proved to be the only chance I had to do any singing. But these were nearly drowned out by the din from down the hall.

"Wot'sa mattah with you?'

"Shut up. I don't want to hear it.'

"You and your feckin' brandy! You'd sell your own children for more feckin' brandy.'

"'Finally a good idea. First time you've ever ad one!'

"So many nights carried on that way. Occasionally I would hear Henry's voice, shouting at Mr. Gloucester as well. I couldn't wait to get out of that house. There was nowhere I could go, and I would have done anything to get out. I would have gone so far as to support myself on matches if it could have gotten me out. That didn't happen. For four more years, that was what family was."

I stop and look at Basil and Dawson. Dawson rests his head on his hands, taking in every word. Even Basil pays strict, but still sympathetic, attention; he doesn't hurry me along as I would have thought. Likely he doesn't want me to skip over anything that could prove invaluable as evidence later.

"Tea, anyone?" chirps a lively voice. "My dear, you must want something to drink. Here you are," she says, handing me a cup.

"Thank you," I whisper, taking lingering sips of tea. Dawson and Basil gulp theirs down. They look expectantly at me. I know they are, but I feel that there is another pair of eyes on me as I speak. It isn't Mrs. Judson's. They are coming from the mantle piece. From a painting.


	3. Broken Nest

"Born again I was the day I left the squalor I considered home for so long. Not a moment too soon, mind you. Too many things were allowed to happen before I left. The last several years were the most sensitive; a few devastating times stay with me and endure more than the blurry whirl of my childhood. By the time I left home, I felt closer to those I had lost than anyone living.

"When I was around fourteen, my mum went off to work for a dress shop to support the little ones. All of us wanted to give them the education we never had. They did, not that it made things any better at home. Since they did attend a decent school from a tender age, my young half brothers always thought themselves a cut above the rest of us. Henry had it worst; he was nearly grown but these children never let him forget that he would always be a labourer, never rising above that rung in the social ladder. In a way, they were right.

"Dear Henry didn't have the chance; not that any of us did, really. Henry was building a mouse hole in a fine house in town. These days, many well-to-do families choose a cat for a pet. There is no accounting for taste, as Henry met a heartrending end at the claws of a tabby before he could finish construction. While Henry was old enough to be living on his own, he remained living at home to help support the family. Mr. Gloucester seemed to forget that Henry's salary provided a healthy portion of what we lived on when he often remarked, One less bloody mouth to be fed.' Another thing that never occurred to him was that he had taken our family into his care, and thus Henry as his son. He and my half-brothers all stood dry-eyed at the burial.

"Not long after Henry's passing, Sophie left home. Unknown to the rest of us, she had been seeing a handsome young mouse who worked at a textile factory. She had the common sense to know that telling Mr. Gloucester of her intention to marry and start a family with this mouse who could barely support himself would amount to nothing. Sophie, to Mr. Gloucester, was a source of income, and he was not about to let her go. Never mind that that was the only reason. She would send a letter to Mum from time to time. It was all that kept Mum, Samuel and I in good spirits to know that she was well.

"Years later, but far too soon, we were met with still more misfortune. Without Henry's income, the limit of what we could afford shrank by the day. All we could manage was to put the three half-brothers through school and keep food on the table. There was no room for luxury, but I harboured a desire that became increasingly difficult to suppress. I dreamt of brie, a cheese I had only come across once before when Henry had celebrated a promotion not long before he was sent to work on his final project. Looking back on it now, I shame myself for having wanted so badly something that I could have done without. At the time, that thought never came. In that den of chaos, it didn't matter.

"My sixteenth birthday was fast approaching. The morning of my birthday, Samuel told me vibrantly that he knew exactly where he would find my gift, something he knew me to want. He kept it a mystery, and I was terribly excited. He left to find my gift and he never came home. Mum asked me where my brother had gone, but I knew not. I told her he planned to retrieve a gift for me, but that was all. Weeks passed. No explanation and no word came to excuse his disappearance.

"Some time later, my mum put her sewing down and cried into her pin-pricked hands. My three half-brothers had the compassion of a fence-post, which they certainly got from their father. I went to her. Regaining her composure, she haltingly related to me what she had heard in town. That dozens of mice had met with a grim fate in the local cheese shop, snared and strangled in mousetraps. Samuel was among them, his body found cold under the bar of a trap baited with brie. My eyes filled with tears, and Mum held me to her. Through her own tears, she hoped to console me, There there, me li'le child. At least our Samuel will have a decent burial.'

"I bawled. Mum, you don't understand! He only went to find a present for me. For my birthday! It's all my fault that that Samuel's _dead_!' The emphasis I put on the word dead' caught the attention of the three young ones.

"'Don't say such things, Margaret! We'll all miss our Samuel, but this won't do us a bit o' good.' She lowered her voice and added, With Sophie off and married, you're all I have in the world.'

"I wrapped my arms around her neck, but I couldn't miss the question of my half-brother asked a little to innocently, Mummy, why did Mag want to go and hurt Samuel?'

"Mum could see that the question came not for Samuel's sake, but out of resentment that I was still there. Mr. Gloucester had always seen my whole siblings and myself as extra mouths that did nothing but eat up the money he brought home, as far as he was concerned. His three children were extensions of himself, so of course he loved them. I alone remained the intruder. Mum couldn't answer them; it would do no good. If we offended Mr. Gloucester's darlings so to set them into a tantrum, Mum and I were the ones who would bear the brunt of Mr. Gloucester's fury for it. So I went on being Maudlin Mag to them, not that it mattered. All the while Mum and I held each other and wept. Equally difficult to accept was our inability to give him the finest coffin. We did what we could, then gave him our love.

"There is nothing I have told you thus far that you haven't heard thousands of times before, but that makes it no less harsh of a memory. Maybe I am Maudlin Mag after all," I pause, thinking of my own children. As I try to find the place where my life went amiss, setting things wrong for them, I find myself pitying me more than fearing for them.

"No," Basil says gently, raising his hand from the armchair. "You" he glances resentfully at the painting of Ratigan and holds his tongue. "Go on."

I do. "Then perhaps you can make some sense of what came next. By the time nearly eighteen years in that nest of hell had come and gone, it was my turn to have to make my voice heard against Mr. Gloucester. He fancied that I go to work as Henry and Samuel had done before me, but remain in the nest as they had. I had had only a few years of education to speak of, not nearly enough to be selected for a satisfying means of work. One evening, when all of us were clustered together before the fire, Mr. Gloucester brought the matter up again. And I, firmly this time, pushed it down.

"'No!' I shouted defiantly. I won't go. First Henry, then Samuel, and now me as well?'

"'Mum slapped a paw across her mouth, shocked that I would say such a thing. I had never let out a squeak in my own defense before. Margaret, please!' She pleaded with me, trying to sit me down next to her again. I wouldn't let her.

"Mr. Gloucester was enraged by the loss of his authority. To his stepdaughter, no less! You are eighteen, but you still act like a child! It's well time you began earning your keep.'

"'How can I when I can barely read the newspaper? There is nowhere for me to go! What do you want, for me to work my arse off in some miserable sweatshop?' By the time Mr. Gloucester and I were close enough to each other to feel breath fuming from each other's words, my half brothers tried to restrain me, pull me away from him. Let go of me!' I screamed, struggling. I stamped on a tail and one of them howled. Mum shuddered to watch, and I hated to see her hurt that way. The nest she had created out of love with my father had gone all to staves. Now there was only poverty, dissention, and liquor. Lots of liquor.

"'How dare you, wretch!' Mr. Gloucester headed for me with a raised fist, but would not lower it, as his precious sons were in the way. At least in a sweatshop you would have some scrap of honour to your name! No mouse would want to support a homely thing like you in marriage. Instead you sit at home with your foolish mother and appreciate nothing I do. I'm the one who has kept this family together, you ungrateful sewer rat!' He spat the words out at me. To any mouse, there was no more degrading an insult that could be hissed in anger. Hearing them made me want to fulfill his words and revert back to natural instincts, unlike the way Mum had tried to bring me up properly. I wanted to bear down and tear at him, scratch his eyes out, make him feel as lowly as Mum, Sophie and my brothers had. And how I felt.

"I flailed my arms in his direction, but Mr. Gloucester cleanly dodged the blows. Most fun for him was watching me struggle all in vain. When my strength wore out, I went limp in my half brothers' arms, and they coldly let me drop to the floor. I'll never be your servant,' I snarl through clenched teeth. This mouse was the one who broke our family nest. I resolved to never let him control me. I would leave the only place I knew to escape that. That was when I knew I had to leave. I glared up at him viscously.

"'You'll thank me one day when you're going nowhere,' he said, and disappeared. The half brothers pounded me with a couple hard fists until I shoved them off and returned to my mum's side.

"She was still trembling, but sat bent over with her face buried in one hand. I put my arms around her and whispered gently, I love you, Mum. But I can't stay here, not like this. I have to get out right away.'

"This was not the news she wanted. Heavens, you can't! You ave nowhere to go, no work, no money. You'll be quite alone in the world.'

"'I won't. As long as I'm alive, I'm still your daughter," I told her, pulling her closer. And you'll always be me mum.'

"Her smile shone through her tears. It was the same smile I have seen on her face often in the years since Mr. Gloucester became part of our family, or what of it remained, the very same. Whenever Gloucester, in a drunken stupor, lashed out at her with words, fists, or lust, that was the smile she would wear before us children. That was how much she loved us; we could take away any sorrow that she experienced. Well, Margaret. If you must go, then you must take this.' From her neck, she removed this silver locket that I now wear, engraved with a delicate pattern of flowers and grasses. Opening it, she revealed to me dark photographs of her and father, he on the left, she on the right. Never fo'get where you're from. Someday, when ye need it most, we'll be there.'

"We embraced. I'll leave in the morning,' I said finally, making up my mind. I knew it had to be done, but my conviction to follow through was not as strong as I would have hoped. Thank you for everything, Mum.' That night, I packed everything of mine into a tattered valise. I got barely a moment of sleep that night.

"That morning was a blur of emotions. Rather than risk being convinced to stay by Mum's affection, I disappeared into the streets of London before anyone was awake. For what felt like hours, I wandered the streets, carrying this awkward case of clothes. Looking for what, I knew not. As I reflect on it now, I can't imagine what was going through my head as I tried to make a life out of nothing when I was not very much more than a child.

"My attention was not focused on anything in particular, on the relief of escape, mainly. I certainly was giving precious little attention to where I was going, and I soon found myself by the waterfront. Fog swirled above my head like I had never seen before, even in my neighbourhood. Visible only were the silhouettes of rough cut mice, who blustered past and went slinking off into the fog as mysteriously as they had come. I quickened my pace, becoming suddenly fearful. My suspicious shuffle transformed into a near sprint, as much as I could still carrying my belongings. I kept up this gait until I bumped into someone and fell backwards, lightheaded.

"'Watch where you're going' My eyes widen at the sound of the commanding female voice, which followed the accusation with a string of obscenities. She appeared through a swirl of mist as a large, full-figured mousemaid, likely ten years older than I. She tried too hard to look my age as she made up her face and squeezed her heavy body into a revealing dress. Noticing me as I tried to scurry away, she grasped me by the wrist and pulled me forcefully to my feet. Well, well! Wot's this then?' She asked to no one in particular, eyeing me from head to toe.

"'I didn't mean to,' I stuttered. ' She wasn't listening. She was looking at me.

"'You look a bit down on your luck, darling. It's a sad sight to see when a lovely lady such as yourself must wander about the streets like no one at all!' With dramatic movements, she dusts me off. Now, ow would you like to come with me, and get off your feet?' I was in no position to refuse, and I was convinced that nowhere she could take me could be worse than where I had come from. Eagerly, I nodded, beginning to grin. That's right. We'll make you most comfortable. Ey, Jack, bring the lady's things. She needs to get off er feet for awhile.' A disreputable looking mouse with several notches in his ears scooped up my case and dragged it along with him as he followed us a few doors down.

"'As I said, Miss'

"'Margaret,'

"Miss Margaret, you can have a sit down. If it pleases you, we may have a job for you as well.'

"My eyes brightened. A job being handed to me! I was so relieved by the idea, it made no difference what this job was as long as it wasn't in a sweatshop. I don't know how to thank you,' I said, grinning innocently.

"The grin she returned to me was not so innocent. Don't bother with that aroun' ere. Just call me Miss Pearl. Ere we are! Margaret, welcome to the Rat Trap!' Simple as that, I began the rest of my life. From there, everything fell into place almost on its own. Even when I had the power of choice, I wasn't aware of it. They somehow seemed to be made for me."

Sighing, I past look past Basil and Dawson and up at the painting. It is cold and unsentimental.


	4. Poor as a Churchmouse

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update, but I'm coming out of a tough couple weeks. To answer your question, Mouse Avenger, Miss Pearl is the barmaid from the movie, yes. Thanks for reviewing, too! Enjoy chapter 4, all. This is where things start to pick up, with the appearance of well, you'll see!

"Upon meeting Miss Pearl, it was not long before I considered myself separate from the world I had once been so completely a part of. The allure and intrigue of the forbidden rodent world that lies beneath the streets pulled me in and I did not resist. Precious little of my earliest days there remains in my memory. They are all melded together into long days and longer nights. For lodgings I did not want, as I had my own room made up at the end of a hallway behind the barroom. Inside, I kept my meager wardrobe along with the few possessions I brought along with me. The room was bare save the bed in the corner and the mirror that rested on a chest of drawers. Miss Pearl had a larger room next to mine, and although she was my boss and rather intimidating at times, I got on fairly well with her. It was the customers I could have done without.

"Perhaps I should have known what I was getting into when Miss Pearl insisted that I change from my plain, modest house dress into something more appropriate for work. More fittin', she called it. My first day before work, she held out to me a little pink dress, quite little indeed. When I hesitated, she brushed me off. T'ain't nothin' t'worry about. I took the measurements from t'other one ye brought n' made it meself. Come now, put it on.' I sheepishly did, not wanting to affront this woman who took me in off the streets and gave me a job when she had no need to. The least I could do was do as she asked.

"I don't believe I need to elaborate on this. All I shall say is that the dress she gave me may have been appropriate for working in the Rat Trap, but certainly nowhere else. Despite trying to imprint on my memory that I could not lean forward and remain decent, I was uncomfortable. That wasn't how I was brought up, you see. Miss Pearl seemed pleased, so I said nothing. All this before my first day on the job.

"Not that the actual work was all that difficult. That morning, Miss Pearl gave me a crash course in serving drinks, and as far as she was concerned, I would be able to handle it from there. She was right, and while I knew it would take some getting used to and a lot of practice, I saw my new means of work should suit me in time. Suit me in the sense that it was something I could do without being hindered by my limited education. The negative side of working at the Rat Trap was, as I have said already, the customers.

"Until I began my days there, I was used to not having much of an identity. A field mouse, in a family such as mine no less, does not have all the luxury of respect one might wish. At the Rat Trap, I came to discover disdain of another kind. Miss Pearl had warned me (or, at least hinted at) some customer's attitude toward the barmaids. Ye got ta understand, dearie. Our best customers aren't always our _best_. They'll be delighted to meet a lovely young mouse like yeself, but they don't have the most gentlemanly way of showing it. All I can say is, don't be put off; it's a business.'

"Early on, it was entirely true what she said, and my world was turned quite on its head. I didn't work during the day when the Rat Trap was open under the guise of a restaurant aimed at sea rats who had just come in off a cargo ship or barge from the Thames. Those were the hours I slept, which was surprisingly easy despite the beams of sun pouring in through my window. At eight o'clock sharp every evening, the restaurant became a bar, and Sundays were no exception. At six I had to be awake and preparing for work. I had to make sure all the beer mugs were clean and in order, and that our shelves were well stocked with every brandy, sherry, and liqueur that any hard heart could desire. The rest of the time was making myself presentable, although standards for that were low. It was imperative that I look desirable to promote the Rat Trap's image of a virile, strong-willed rodent, of course. But there was no importance placed on the class of my appearance.

"Often while serving a guest, I would be hesitant, barely able to force my voice to raise itself above a squeak. What's your pleasure?' I would ask dutifully. Responses usually began in the form of lecherous sniggering, or occasionally something more explicit. Once receiving the order, I would quickly return with the drinks, ready to be done with it. Still I would end up with a paw brushing against my arm or spanking my bottom more than I would have liked.

"Unfortunately, I often seemed to unknowingly provide most of the entertainment for guests. Sure, we had a stage show, but the only real purpose that held was preventing fights. Most of the acts were so bad they were lucky to be booed off the stage, as opposed to the alternative: being chased off with knives, oaths, and a few gunshots for good measure. Miss Pearl firmly believed that it was a safer bet to have the guests taking out their natural aggressions on the entertainers; it prevented many a real bar fight.

"I can clearly picture one performer who was an exception to the rule. Miss Kitty Mouse was her name, I believe. She was a singer just starting out. A cute little bit of a thing, a few years older than myself. I couldn't help but pause in whatever I happened to be doing to watch her sing and dance on stage, with the eyes of every mouse in the place focused intently on her. Their eager eyes were filled with lust, but at the same time admiration. Even in a drunken stupor, they wouldn't shamelessly try to grab her as they would me as I shuffled awkwardly by juggling an armful of pints. As she prowled the stage in lingerie, she had a presence about her, an elegance that she carried with her always. My natural uneasiness made me not so much desirable, but nevertheless young and an easy target for mice and rats on the floor at my level. I wanted so desperately to be up there with her, bathed in stage lights and singing like no one could imagine.

"On one instance, I spoke to her. It was in the wee hours of the morning, when the place was nearly empty. I had been sweeping the stage clean of crushed tomatoes and stray bullets when I saw Kitty, almost unrecognizable dressed as ordinary as could be, pass by backstage. I called out to her, and she waved warmly to me. Inexplicably, she approached. I've seen you on the floor, serving drinks. They do keep you on your feet around here.'

I grinned nervously, unsure of what to say to this mousemaid who I want desperately to be like. That they do, although I'm sure they would just as soon keep me off my feet.' We shared a grim giggle, well familiar with the company we kept there.

"'I know what you mean. It wouldn't be any easier for you, down there.'

"Unable to keep it to myself anymore, I let myself say anything. How did you make it to the stage? You're a wonder up there! It might sound foolish coming from me, but you are living the dream I've had since I was small.'

"To my surprise, she didn't laugh. Well, my mum always said selling my voice was just one step shy of selling my body, but she wasn't about to stop me from doing what I do best. Being up there with music, and my dancing, and my voice.' Jealous though I was, she seemed every bit content of what she had accomplished and I couldn't bring myself to dislike her. Never mind that she was singing in the confines of an underground bar, she had an act all her own. Take care of yourself, Mag,' she said, slinking away into the shadows at the back of the stage again. That was the day I further nurtured the hope that I would someday be where she was.

"Not long after, I can't say whether it was the same night or another following, I had a discussion with someone else. This time it was Miss Pearl, deeply frustrated. She called me into her room once we dimmed the lights and guests had all swaggered off elsewhere. Once I was seated beside her, she guiltily informed me rather bluntly of something even bigger than my aspirations to be a stage singer. M'dear, there's no good way to say this, but we're all in for it.'

"'How do you mean?' I asked, immediately concerned. It was unlike Miss Pearl to show any emotion besides anger or sarcasm. We have so many customers every night, we get along well enough.'

"'You are a little girl, aren't you?' She asked to the stale air, running her stubby fingers through my tangled hair. I was ill at ease, but said nothing, not wanting to upset her further. Before I could ask her to elaborate, she did. Payin' fo' the Rat Trap's upkeep _an'_the stage performers at the same time is quite a job. We're on the brink o' losin' the place.'

"'Couldn't we just stop hiring performers? We can get on without them. And I'm sure Kitty Mouse wouldn't say no to doing a few numbers without pay just because she loves it that much.'

"Miss Pearl was not about to be set right so easily. If only it were that simple. We need entertainers; otherwise the place would be shot to pieces. Look like Swiss cheese.' She went silent and stroked the wooden walls, currently bullet free. Then she turned to me. I hate to tell ye this, but there is only one way I've been able to make ends meet.' This time she seemed to wait for me to ask.

"'How? What other way is there?'

"'I work after hours. But I don't serve drinks, but rather something that can only be sold late at night.' She leaves it at that, as if it would protect my youthful mind. Understanding her meant clearly that there was no use in trying to shield me; it was too little too late.

"I was horrified by the thought. Surely there's something that can be done! You can't give yourself to any sewer rat who walks in the door like you were a bottle of _Rodent's Delight_.' This was the mousemaid who took me in, and I couldn't bear to see her tear herself apart trying to keep the Rat Trap together. Can't we just leave the place, start new somewhere else?'

"Pessimistic, Miss Pearl shook her head. It wouldn't matter. If I don't do wot I do, I'll lose me ome anyway. Can't pay. Besides, where else could we go? No one would want us.'

"Although I can't remember saying so, I had inwardly decided I would not see Miss Pearl suffer alone. The next night, after hours, hidden in the dark of midnight, I joined her in her desperation to preserve the shanty Rat Trap. You don't want to hear of it, of the numbers of mice I took by the hand and led to my room at the end of the corridor. Their faces all blurred into one in my mind, a scowling face with stubble and a scar or two. Old, young, mice, rats, rich, poor; I knew them all. They were all the same in bed. They spoke harshly to me, exploring my body as I lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling. All were equally cold, yet taking advantage of the situation, and me as well. At the worst of times, I stubbornly clung to the notion that I would someday be a singer. According to Kitty Mouse's mother, I was only a step away.

"There began a dark stretch of days. I felt like part of the bar, and not in a familial way. I was part of the drab furnishings, for mice to place orders to, in and out of the bedroom. I was seldom spoken to by anyone other than Miss Pearl. I thought that was the way things would proceed forever – having no identity, but having only one phrase I could ever say and be heard, What's your pleasure?' After a time, I barely noticed that. It was simply what my life had been reduced to. I knew nothing better. Years of being ordered about by Mr. Gloucester had been little better. What difference did it really make? I was pinned down either way, whether it was as a child Mr. Gloucester was bringing up as a servant instead of a daughter or earning desperately needed money lying on a bed, hating everything that had put me there.

"One day, everything changed. It must have been eight years ago. As I was waiting on customers, I noticed a face in the crowd I had never seen before. Our usual customers, and even those who only appeared once or twice a month had become imprinted in my memory, but this one stood out as unique. I would definitely have known if he had stopped by previously. His appearance struck me. In place of the shabby seafaring clothes that most customers wore, he sported a suit and ascot. A well-dressed gent compared to the rascals who frequented the place. Despite his civil appearance, he was obviously strong; his size gave this away. Even as he sat at a table by himself, chin resting on gloved hand, he still looked intense and muscular.

"But the thing that captured my attention was his face. An odd match for his well-clad figure, his face was plainly that of a rat. Large ears, eyes golden and piercing, a strong jaw, and long nose all added up to a rat, for certain. Perhaps he wasn't traditionally handsome, but he had an attractive air about him. He was intriguing to say the least, and I was eager to approach him. Had I known who he was, I could not have done a thing differently. Positively bewitching, he was. His eyes were aimed at the wall, and his mind was somewhere else when I placed a hand on the edge of his table. Becoming suddenly bolder than I felt, I asked him, What's your pleasure?'

"For the first time, asking the question didn't create the dull ache in my stomach. It was natural. Then came an answer to my question that I will never forget. A glass of sherry for me,' he answered, his words as elegant as his appearance. Admiring my face, he added, And one for you as well, if you shall have it.' I accepted his gracious offer. That, Basil and Dawson, is how I met Professor Ratigan."


End file.
